Chapter 10
At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
and a freight train running through the
middle of my head
Bruce Springsteen, I'm on Fire
"So, he was trying to help you?"
Rogue blinked at the girl sitting across the room from her. "Kitty, were ya even listenin' to me? Do you have any idea what Ah just said?"
The younger woman stuck her chin out and crossed her arms over her chest. "You said that Remy came running into the control room," her lips drew into an evil smirk, "and that he was only wearing a towel." Her brown eyes glossed over momentarily before she shook herself and pouted, "I am never in the right place at the right time."
Slapping her palm against the nightstand they shared, Rogue let out a frustrated breath. "Would ya just please try to focus! Joseph is Magneto's son! Do you have any idea what this means? Ah agreed to go on a date with him an' now Ah find out that he is the son of the psychopath who tried to kill me! And not just me—hundreds, no thousands of innocent people!"
"So don't go out with him then," Kitty's eye roll was more than Rogue could handle at that particular moment, and she threw a pillow at the brunette's bobbing ponytail.
"Kit," she groaned, "Ah can't do that!"
An eyebrow rose. "Why not?"
"Ah can't just not go on a date with him because of what his father did. That's like him refusing to date me because of my power."
"What if he decided against going out with you because of your power?"
"Well, it's not like Ah could blame him."
Kitty's bubblegum pink nails flitted across the space between them. "Well, there you go."
"Waddaya mean, 'there you go'?"
"It's the same difference."
"No, it's not!"
"So, it's okay for him but not for you?" Her ponytail jerked behind her as a disapproving look settled over her features.
"It's not the same thing—"
Kitty cut her off. "Yes. It is." Her fingers pulled the hair tie from her brown locks and she shook them out. "Honestly, Rogue—"
It was her turn to be cut off as Rogue leaned forward, her green eyes flashing dangerously. "It's not like Ah can die if he so much as touches me."
The retort came out in an exasperated huff. "No, but you almost did when his dad touched you."
Tension sliced through the silence and they stared each other down. Both were adamant about their points and neither was going to give the other an inch. Finally, Rogue rolled her eyes and flipped to her side, her back signaling the end of the conversation.
"Ah gotta get to sleep; Ah've got to be able to deal with the swamp rat in the morning. If he even bothers to show up," she added, pulling her covers up to her shoulders and squeezing her eyes tight against the light.
For a long moment, there was nothing; then, she heard Kitty sigh, heard the click as the light was turned off, heard her friend phase through the door. She didn't like being cross with Kit; it bothered her to refuse the other woman's sympathy. But the fact of the matter was that for all of her head nodding, eye rolling, and gentle encouraging, Kitty had no idea what it was like to be forever untouchable.
She realized how ironic that sounded given the nature of Kitty's mutant abilities. The girl could literally make herself untouchable, turning intangible by concentrating on the molecules that made up her body. She could bend them with a thought, thinning them, rolling them, twisting them so that they were able to pass through the spaces between the atoms of other solids. To listen to the bubbly young woman describe her powers was definitely a crash course in physical science, which was probably the reason she taught that particular subject.
Kitty could become truly untouchable. And yet…
Rogue's heart squeezed and a tear moved down the curve of her face.
X
Remy threw his sweat-soaked towel into the bin and rolled his neck, trying to loosen the knots that had gathered at the base of his head and traveled into his shoulders. His jaw was beginning to hurt from all the clenching and the ache was starting to move into his temples. Digging into the bag one last time, he spared it a glance before moving into the hall.
After the outburst in the control room, he had hightailed it to the workout room; fueled by the twin emotions of anger and embarrassment, he had beat the shit out of the heavy bag before moving to perform fast-paced punches on the smaller speed bag. He had let the anger pour into the heavy canvas and had to prevent himself from entertaining the idea that either one of the bags had auburn and white hair. He would never think of hitting a woman, even if the one in question needed an obscene amount of sense shook into her.
Now heat coursed down his arms, heavy from use, and he grimaced as he raised them high over his head to stretch the constricted muscles. He admired them; they were hard, swelling and ebbing into perfectly cut biceps and seemingly chiseled from rock. He grunted as he pulled them behind his back, elongating them.
He bypassed the locker room, enjoying the proof of his workout on his skin. He'd shower in his bathroom. What was the point of having a private bath if he didn't use it?
Glancing at a wall clock, he sighed. 'Ro and JP were going to kill him if he didn't hurry. They were not late eaters and reminded him of that point every time the three decided to have dinner. The time was pushing 9:00 and if he didn't get a move on, he'd be stuck warming leftovers from the students' dinner while his friends were out eating real food. The thought of steak made his mouth water and he picked up his pace, his footsteps remarkably quiet for someone running in boots on a tiled floor. He dove into the elevator, punching the button for the second floor several times even though it was already lit. Patience was a virtue in his previous line of work, and while Remy was the best, he and patience maintained a love-hate relationship: it loved to torment him, and he hated to wait. Especially for steak.
He cracked his knuckles, his eyes watching the digital display on the elevator's doors. How many sublevels did this place have? The doors finally opened and he hit the carpet with long, powerful strides, his mission clear in his head: shower, dress, eat steak. He could fill in his plans as the night allowed, but as for now, those three things were his top priority.
He pushed open the door and watched as the hall's light spilled across the darkened room, cutting across the floor and his bed. A smirk slid over his face.
Black stiletto heels gleamed in the light.
X
"This is a bad idea, Charles," Ororo sat in one of the chairs across from the professor's desk; Scott was in the other. "Partnering Rogue with Joseph…knowing who his father is…it's unkind."
"For once, I gotta say…I agree. She was scared by the revelation."
Professor Charles Xavier steepled his fingers together and analyzed the situation. "I'm afraid that I do not agree. I believe that at this time, Rogue needs to emotionally mature. That means being able to accept the fact that guilt by association does not always apply. Joseph is not his father, Scott. He is a kind man who wants to make a difference."
"Too bad the apple never falls far from the tree," Scott mumbled.
Xavier ignored him. "As X-Men, as humans, we must give him the opportunity to prove he is more than his biology. That is, after all, what each of us is trying to accomplish. Rogue will be fine; she is a survivor."
"But at what cost will she survive?" Lines framed Ororo's eyes, her concern for the young woman wearing on her. "She was petrified of him."
"And how do you know?" The two teachers exchanged knowing glances and Xavier's eyebrows rose in question. "Come now, out with it."
"Remy was nearby."
"Oh?"
"Professor, you know how he is," Ororo shook her head, "the whole no-one-can-touch-me-cuz-I'm-so-cool thing? Which you know is an act," she added. "He did his—" she waved her hands around her head, "—thing…and what happened, Scott?"
The young man huffed. "I've never seen him so freaked…ever."
Xavier drummed a finger on his chin. "Perhaps his empathy is acting up. He's not lived in such close quarters with so many pubescent mutants in quite some time. The extra hormones and teen angst-drama could be wearing on his shields…"
"I don't think so, Professor." Scott leaned in, his jaw set. "I think she called for help and he was the only one who heard it."
"That's preposterous. If she had actually called for help, Betsy Braddock or myself would have heard her. It is far more likely that she was—yes—scared by the news of Joseph's origin but that she momentarily panicked. Remy misinterpreted the fear because his empathy is working overtime and overcompensated for the intensity. How did he handle it?"
Suddenly the two became very interested in the edging around the desk.
Xavier cleared his throat. "What happened?"
"In Remy's defense, he was trying to help her," Ororo began.
"He punched Joseph," Scott finished, holding up his fingers for clarification, "twice."
Xavier pinched his nose. "And what did Rogue do?"
"She yelled at him." Scott sucked in his breath.
Ororo picked at her cuticles. "And then he said something in French…"
"Which means he was being a prick," Scott explained.
"Oy."
Scott nodded. "That's what I said."
X
"Hello, luv. I couldn't sleep."
The stilettos disappeared behind a tuft of blanket only to readjust their position and obliterate the cotton mound. Stretching like caramel from a leather sling back, the gentle swell of a tanned calf made Remy's tooth ache. His eyes followed the soft slope of the knee to where the tight muscles of an exquisite thigh flexed under his gaze. She shifted and fabric, the same midnight as the shoes, fell across that thigh. He had to will himself not to cry.
His foot hooked around the edge of his door and he kicked it back to its frame. "Couldn't sleep?" He tossed his uniform to the floor and crossed his arms across his bare chest. "Got monsters under your bed, chére?"
The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight bleeding through the blinds. He didn't need to see her to know she was watching him. He could feel her violet eyes grazing up and down his long, lean form, teasing his mouth, promising more than words. But when it came to seduction, Remy Lebeau was not a novice. In fact, he was usually the pursuer. Not that he minded a little role-reversal now and again, but there was no way in hell he was going to pull off the innocent act. Not even parochial school had achieved that goal.
He leaned against the wall, hooking his fingers into the belt loops on either side of his fly, and returned her gaze with one of his own. His was like fire—and he knew it. The irises lit, burning red in the heavy gray of the shadows. He heard her catch her breath; saw the quick rise of her chest. He slid to the bed, molasses down a porcelain pitcher, "Or maybe you just afraid o' de dark?"
She chuckled, her fingers skimming down his abs before hooking into the waistband. "Scared stiff, luv. Of course, if I had someone to keep me company at night…" She let the innuendo drop; the moon reflected off her perfect teeth.
Those red lips called to him and he decided that they reminded him of strawberries, ripe and plump and bursting with the sweet/sour taste uniquely belonging to the little fruit. Somewhere a voice of reason, sounding disturbingly like JP—funny, would have expected Stormy—shouted from the recesses of his mind. "Arrêt! Ce que l'enfer faites-vous? Vous n'avez pas été même ici un mois et vous choisissez déjà votre prochain ex? (Stop! What the hell are you doing? You haven't even been here a month and you're already picking your next ex?)" Oh, yeah, French…that explains why it's JP.
But those lips…
She licked them.
Well, hell, with an invite like that…
He really did like strawberries.
X
Rogue awoke with a start and her head whirled in the dark, frantically searching the room around her. Heavy with blankets, she kicked them away, freeing her chest from their suffocating weight, and dropped back to her pillow. The air licked at her; she could have sworn she saw steam rise from her body. Glancing to her right, she checked Kitty's bed. The young woman was there and Rogue watched silently as the blankets rose and fell with her breathing. It was slow, deep, peaceful, and Rogue wished she were the one sleeping soundly.
Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she stifled a yawn. What had made her wake up? She squeezed her brow together, but nothing came to mind. Great, maybe it was a flash of memory from one of the psychos she'd had the pleasure of absorbing. The thoughts running through their minds would be enough to make a grown man sit up straight. She wondered if it was Magneto. Probably. She had just met his son, for goodness sake. Surely daddy dearest would have an opinion on that matter. She had such shit for luck.
It was bad enough that when she touched someone skin to skin, they passed out and she got a head full of their personalities, memories, and powers. But never one to half-ass something, she went one step further: once she touched them, they were in her head but good. They were never as strong as when they were first assimilated into her mind, but every now and again, those miniature souls would turn spastic and push to the forefront of her brain, causing her to dream about whatever sordid memory they retained from their true owners.
Made for some unholy nightmares.
She glanced at the clock then groaned. It was just after midnight. When she had been in college, she would have looked at that time and rejoiced that she still had a good eight hours before whatever project or exam was due. Now, as she looked at the blaring red numbers, she cringed. The kids arrived to class at eight. She needed to be there at least thirty minutes before them to make sure that the lesson's objectives were clearly displayed, that the cultural video was keyed up, that the internet activities could be accessed properly from the classroom, that the cyber-guards on those computers were functioning, and that she had something prepared to preoccupy her—she rolled her eyes—co-teacher. Plus, she wanted to run, shave her legs, and straighten her hair—an endurance test on its own. All of that meant that she had to be up by—she ticked off the hours on her fingers—five. And that was at the latest.
She rolled to her side and squeezed her eyes closed. A minute passed before she gave in. Swearing, she kicked her feet to the floor and climbed out of bed. She was wide-awake. And there was no way she'd fall back to sleep just laying there. She'd toss and turn and become more irritated with herself. No, getting up was the best plan. Even if it was after midnight.
Maybe she needed fresh air? She grabbed a sweater from her closet, her eyes watching Kitty as the door creaked softly. The sleeping girl's rhythmic breathing didn't falter once. Rogue sighed and pulled the thick material over her head. She lifted the latch and slowly pushed open the door to their balcony. A blast of warm air greeted her face and she allowed herself a smile as she stepped into the darkness. Either 'Ro was in a happy mood or there was some freak jet stream pulling weather in from the south. It didn't matter, because one way or the other, Rogue peeled off the hooded sweater and threw it to the balcony's floor.
She climbed onto the railing, her fingers digging into the spaces between bricks and her hands straining from the overwhelming absence of proportioned weight. There were several raised bricks to the left of the balcony that ran up the mansion's wall and formed a makeshift ladder to the one of the roof's eaves. She had found the camouflaged path one evening while sulking on the balcony and had used it as her own, private entrance to the roof after that.
Gripping the bricks in her hands, she pushed her body against the wall. As she climbed, she reveled against the feel of the rough rock against her skin. When one jagged edge scraped against her cheek, she wasn't sure if she felt pleasure or pain. Anytime something broke through the ever-present layer of protection she wore and actually touched skin, her emotions would twist into a confusion of fear and relief.
She reached the eave, her hands stretching to find a decent handhold. She walked her feet up, a precarious position to be sure, but there was not another way. Once her torso was almost parallel to her arms, she kicked one leg up, dragging her knee across the shingles, and flattening her body to push her weight into the roof. When she was sure that her center of gravity rested firmly on the roof, she began to crawl forward, her other leg trailing behind her until she could find a way to comfortably pull it up. It was a blessing that the mansion's roof consisted of gently sloping gables. If they had been anymore harsh, she would have been pitched right off.
Sweat trickled from her hairline and she grinned as she moved to rest on her favorite slope with her back against the mansion's rising third floor. But when she got there, she was unhappy to find that her spot was already otherwise occupied. She couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice when she asked the squatter, "What're you doin' here?"
X
He should not have done it.
Even while he was doing it, his conscience was screaming at him to stop.
But he hadn't listened.
He should not have done it.
It wasn't that he felt guilty. Why should he? He had made no promises, swore no oaths of love and loyalty. There had been absolutely no false pretenses offered or received. No deals had been struck; no contracts signed. Really, truly, it hadn't been anything more than a simple hook up.
To him.
But women, he realized, women were different. For all he knew, she was planning their lives together in some pretty little town with a temperate climate and good schools. But, then again, Betsy didn't strike him as that kind of a girl. No. She wasn't that type. The only emotions she had projected had been pure, unadulterated lust. And she had been hungry. He grinned as he remembered and pulled the cigarette carton from his jeans' back pocket.
Normally, he kept them in his trench coat, but when he had pushed open the door to his balcony, he had been happily greeted by a blast of warm air and had chosen to leave the coat hanging over the railing. The climb to the roof had been tricky. He had not yet had the opportunity to equip his new quarters with a much needed escape route. Too bad Xavier had given his old room away.
He tamped down the cigarette, setting the carton beside him. No need to waste energy by putting it back in his pocket; he was just going to get another when he finished this one. He held it between his lips and watched his finger and thumb rub circles into each other. A second later, it glowed, a perfect pink fire imprisoned in the rounded tip of his finger. He tapped the end of his cigarette; a flame caught, and he enjoyed a slow draw.
Exhaling, he scratched his brow. He shouldn't have done it.
After Paris, or more specifically, after Genny, he had sworn to himself that he would not get involved with co-workers, but the day had been so frustrating…and he was the worst at keeping New Year's resolutions. Now things would get weird. He hoped she wouldn't start calling him and hanging up. Or following him. Or just showing up…well, maybe she could just show up every once in a while. He licked his lips, her lip-gloss still sticky on his mouth.
Stormy and JP were gonna kill him.
He tilted his head, ears alert in the darkness, and held his breath. There. He heard it again. It was coming from the direction of his old room. The telltale sound of something scraping against brick was moving up the side of the mansion. Someone had found his express route to the roof. Dieu! Whoever it was moved with the grace of a hippo. He flinched at the heavy plop of a body against the gable and shuddered at the sound of something grating against the shingles. So much for alone time.
Sighing, he blew out a lungful of smoke before crushing the butt under the heel of his combat boot. He slid his sunglasses out from where they had been hanging from his beater and slipped them over his eyes. Damn force of habit. A second later, an unruly mass of white bangs and auburn curls appeared beside him. Good thing he had put out his cigarette, 'cause he'd have swallowed it for sure.
"What're you doin' here?" If he hadn't already seen the disappointment in her eyes, he'd have definitely heard it in her voice.
Maybe if I ignore her, she'll go away.
"What're you followin' me now?"
His luck had really gone to pot lately.
He tilted his chin in her direction but didn't face her. Instead, he watched through the corners of his eyes. "Well, Miss'ippi, considerin' dat I was here first, I'm gon' go wit' non. But I'm sure if'n you wait here long 'nough, some fool'll come lookin' for ya."
"Ya're on my roof." She had pulled herself to sit right in front of him, arms crossed over her chest, legs straddling the roof's swell.
"Désolé, I di'n't see ya're name written anywhere. 'Pologies."
"Ya're such a dick. Ah swear—"
He sighed, his fingers rubbing underneath his glasses. "Look, p'tite, I don' wan' fight wit' you right now. 'm tired. It's—" he glanced up to the sky, his eyes tracing the moon, "reckon' it's 'bout twelve-thirty. Dat makes it a brand-new day. D'ya t'ink we could call a truce for t'night?"
She hesitated.
He prepared himself for another verbal barrage.
"Fine," she shrugged.
His brow furrowed. "Fine?" he asked.
"Fine," she repeated. "Ah don't much feel like fightin' right now anyway."
He nodded. "Okay." He ran his tongue over his teeth, "Maybe we could start over," he thrust his hand toward her, "'m Remy."
She raised her eyebrows, assessing his face for any hints of malice. "Rogue," she answered finally, catching his hand and shaking it quickly before letting her own drop to her lap.
"Bon."
They settled into peaceful tolerance for each other. She sat across from him, her gloved fingers picking at the shingles. Gloved—even at night, when she had no intentions of running into another person, she had worn gloves. Guess he wasn't the only one with forces of habit.
The truth was, though, that at that moment he envied her, her mutations. To be untouchable meant freedom. Touch provoked confusion, clouding emotions with tender caresses and insincere promises whispered low under starlight. He knew the intimate power of such touches—his own hot breath had tickled many ears with similar empty pleasantries while he relied on the one need so primitive sometimes he wasn't sure if he was the hunter or the prey.
But she was above all that. She could not be touched. She didn't understand the need to feel the slide of fingertips down skin, was completely ignorant to the way lips felt against a bare neck. She was lucky, Remy reasoned, without touch's corruption, she could not be hurt, nor could she hurt others. Surely her heart was as inaccessible as her body.
But he remembered the hurt expression she had worn when she left the classroom. He remembered the rising fear she had projected when that man had placed his hands on her shoulders. And for a moment, he felt pity for her predicament. Too bad untouchable wasn't the same as unreachable.
"You hungry?" He shifted uncomfortably on the ridge.
She looked at him. Shrugging, she answered, "Ah could eat."
"Wanna go down t' de kitchen wit' me?" She hesitated and he quickly added, "two pairs o' eyes are better at findin' decent leftovers."
A small laugh escaped her lips. He smiled.
"Okay, Sparky, Ah'll help you."
"Bon."
She flipped to her stomach, and slowly began to lower herself toward the brick footholds. She glanced up and found him staring down at her, an incredulous look on his face. "What?"
"Roofs ain't really your t'ing, are dey?"
"Shut-up."
He raised his hands. "Jus' an observation, chére."
X
If Xavier's mansion was a sight to behold, Xavier's kitchen was an interior designer's fantasy. If there was any room in the mansion where past meant present, this was it. English Victorian tile, a throwback from the professor's Westminster days, covered the floor, floral designs of whites, browns, and blues winding in and out between stainless steel appliances. Dark wood cabinets filled the spaces below and above brown countertops. In the center of the room, before the kitchen bled into a cozy breakfast nook, stood an island. A stovetop was nestled in one end, while the other side boasted an eight-piece tile inlay that matched the floor's design. A hanging rack was secured to the ceiling above the island and housed the Institute's polished copper cookware.
The breakfast nook was pushed to the far wall, where bay windows ran from the floor to the ceiling, allowing early birds a perfect view of the footbridge and pond at the back of the estate. At night the drapes were closed, thick brown pseudo-walls that restricted the view.
Rogue pressed the light switch and the room was illuminated in a soft white glow from an electric chandelier that hung over the table in the breakfast nook. A quick glance around the room and the two teachers headed to the food. Rogue checked the pantry, a room roughly the size of a large walk-in closet, while Remy had decided to scrounge the refrigerator for leftovers.
"Any luck?" Her voice almost echoed.
Remy honed in on what was left of the devil's food cake. "Ouí. Jus' found some o' dat cake from de ot'er night."
Her head appeared in the doorway. "Nah-uh," she whispered disbelievingly, her eyes searching the counter near the fridge. "Don't kid with me, Cajun."
He grinned, pulling out the platter, covered in green plastic wrap left over from the holidays, and placed it on the countertop. "Chére, I don' never kid 'bout chocolate."
Clasping her hands, she let out a squeal of excitement, before running to the cabinets and pulling out two plates.
"Whoa dere, Miss'ippi. Whatcha doin'? We don' need dem plates. Jus' some forks. We gon' eat dis thing right off de platter. No need makin' more of a mess, hein?"
She shrugged and replaced the plates. Sliding the silverware drawer open, she looked at him curiously. "Didn't ya go out with 'Ro an' JP? They always go out to dinner after the first night of classes. Didn't they invite you?"
He waved her to him, his hands itching to get hold of a fork. "Dey asked me, sure."
"Why didn't you go? Aren't they your best friends?"
He grabbed the fork from her outstretched hand and peeled the plastic back. Digging into the cake, he shrugged, "Somet'in' came up."
"Oh."
The chocolate—cool from its time in the fridge—melted in his mouth. His eyes rolled back in sugary ecstasy. Should've eaten this earlier, maybe then his sweet tooth wouldn't have caused him so much trouble… He sighed, not even the confection could make him forget his mistake. When he opened his eyes, he found two emeralds gazing back at him. "Ouì?"
"What 'came up'?"
Lord. "Animal, mineral, or vegetable?"
"Pardon?"
"Jus' t'ought dat if we're gon' play twenty questions, I should get my obligatory hint."
"That's code for, 'Ah don't wanna talk about it.'"
He licked his fork and leaned his hip against the counter. "Pretty much."
"Can Ah ask you a different question?"
"Can I stop ya?"
"Why weren't ya up in time for classes?"
He pressed his fork into a few large crumbs. They molded to the prongs, pushing through the spaces and sticking to the metal. His voice was quiet, introspective, "Couldn't sleep."
"Why not?"
"Nerves."
She rolled her eyes. "Sorry, but you don't strike me as the type to let your nerves bother ya."
"Never said dey was mine." He looked at her then, his face serious.
She imagined that she saw a shimmer of light flash behind his sunglasses and swallowed. "You a telepath?"
He snorted. "I ain't no spook."
"What are you then?" The whispered words carried an aura of fear.
He held her gaze, or at least, she thought he did. He blew out a tuft of air; it caught his bangs, lifting them up before they fell about his forehead once more. "Somet'in' else." He stood and turned to the refrigerator. "T'ink dey got any milk left?"
She watched as he pushed away from the counter, his neck muscles tightening all the way down to his shoulders. They were broad and strong, set off by the sleeveless white beater he was wearing. She watched his head disappear behind the stainless steel door and she marveled at the way his abdominal muscles cut through the cotton material, rippling with the movement of his body. Her cheeks burned and she diverted her gaze.
He emerged, an empty carton in his hand. "Dey put it back. It's freakin' empty…an' dey put it back!" He chunked it into the trashcan before turning to look at her. "Miss'ippi? You okay?"
"Fine. Ya're—Ah'm fine. Just fine." Oh gawd, Ah'm stammerin' like an idiot.
He raised an eyebrow. "'S long as your fine?"
"Fine."
"O-kay." He moved toward the breakfast nook and dropped in one of the straight back chairs. "Since we's playin' de question game, mind if'n I ask you one?"
"Prob'ly. But go on."
"Mercí." He studied his hands, turning them over and under. "Why were you so scared of dat white-haired homme?"
"Ah wasn't…scared."
"Oh. Okay. Why were you so completely indifferent toward him den?"
She dropped her fork in the sink; the now-empty platter and Remy's fork followed it. "He told me something."
"What? Dat dere's no such thing as fairies?"
She rolled her eyes. "No, asshole, that he—he's related to someone Ah don't like."
An eyebrow raised, but he made no attempt to call her out. She was thankful for that. "An' dis is bad cuz you like de guy, am I right?"
"You sure your not a head-case?" He grinned. It lit up his entire face, and she imagined, made his eyes twinkle. Which brought about another question. "Why do you wear those things?"
"Eye condition."
"Oh. Like Scott?"
"No."
She sighed. He hadn't pushed her for more information; she supposed she could do the same for him. "This was okay," she gestured between them. "Talkin' wit' you, Ah mean." He nodded and she continued. "What's gonna happen tomorrow?"
"You mean, when our truce's run out?"
She nodded. "Yeah, that's what Ah mean."
"I'll go back to being a French-speaking prick an' you'll go back to being a…"
Her hands found her hips. "A what?"
Grinning deviously, he crossed the room to stand next to her, his hand patting her shoulder with mock understanding. "You'll go back to being a ball-busting bitch. Ouch!" he protested as her fist connected with his shoulder. "Hey! I was bein' nice."
There you go. So sorry about the long time between posts. It was a really busy time of the year for me, but I'm good for a little while again.Thanks to musagirl15, dougyboy, Painting.In.Blood, Stella Roberts, Spicy Sweet, theblondeone07, poisoned touch, toomakeyoulaugh, RG Marie, FluidDegree, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, and ishandahalf for reviewing. I fixed it so that you can now leave anonymous reviews, so please do if you don't have an account. Also, thanks for adding Broken Road to yourfavorites! Please continue to review and let me know what you think.
It was really hard to write about Remy and Betsy...but I think that it turned out pretty well. And finally Remy and Rogue managed to have a decent conversation and spend a little bit of quality time with each other. I don't know about you but this chapter's left me with lots of questions...How long will the truce last? Did anyone check the time constraints on it? Will Rogue go out with Joseph? Will Remy make the same mistake twice? Will Remy ever show his eyes to Rogue? And why did he show them to Betsy of all people?